The longer I heard, I esteem'd
The work of my fancy the more,
And e'en to myself never seem'd
So tuneful a poet before.
Though the pleasures of London exceed
In number the days of the year,
Catharina, did nothing impede,
Would feel herself happier here;
For the close-woven arches of limes
On the banks of our river, I know,
Are fweeter to her many times
Than aught that the city can show.
So it is when the mind is endued
With a well judging taste from above,
Then, whether embellish'd or rude,
'Tis nature alone that we love.
The achievements of art may amuse,
May even our wonder excite,
But groves, hills, and valleys diffuse
A lasting, a facred delight.
Since then in the rural recefs
Catharina alone can rejoice,
May it still be her lot to poffefs
The scene of her fenfible choice!
To inhabit a manfion remote
From the clatter of ftreet-pacing steeds,
And by Philomel's annual note
To measure the life that the leads.
With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,
To wing all her moments at home;
And with scenes that new rapture infpire,
As oft as it fuits her to roam;
She will have just the life she prefers,
With little to hope or to fear,
And ours would be pleasant as hers,
Might we view her enjoying it here.
HERMIT (or if 'chance you hold
That title now too trite and old),
A man, once young, who lived retired
As hermit could have well defired,
His hours of study closed at laft,
And finish'd his concise repaft,
Stoppled his cruise, replaced his book
Within its customary nook,
And, staff in hand, set forth to share
The fober cordial of sweet air,
Like Ifaac, with a mind applied
To serious thought at eveningtide.
Autumnal rains had made it chill,
And from the trees, that fringed his hill,
Shades flanting at the close of day
Chill'd more his elfe delightful way.
Distant a little mile he spied
A western bank's ftill funny fide,
And right toward the favour'd place
Proceeding with his nimbleft pace,
In hope to bask a little yet,
Just reach'd it when the fun was set.
Your hermit, young and jovial firs!
Learns fomething from whate'er occurs ;-
And hence, he said, my mind computes
The real worth of man's purfuits.
His object chofen, wealth or fame,
Or other fublunary game,
Imagination to his view
Prefents it deck'd with every hue
That can feduce him not to spare
His powers of beft exertion there,
But youth, health, vigour to expend
On fo defirable an end.
Ere long approach life's evening shades,
The glow that fancy gave it fades ;
And, earn'd too late, it wants the grace
That first engaged him in the chase.
True, answer'd an angelic guide,
Attendant at the fenior's fide-
But whether all the time it cost,
To urge the fruitless chafe be loft,
Must be decided by the worth
Of that which call'd his ardour forth.
Trifles pursued, whate'er the event,
Muft caufe him fhame or difcontent;
A vicious object still is worse,
Successful there he wins a curfe;
But he, whom e'en in life's last stage
Endeavours laudable engage,
Is paid at least in peace of mind,
And sense of having well defign'd;
And if, ere he attain his end,
His fun precipitate defcend,
A brighter prize than that he meant
Shall recompenfe his mere intent.
No virtuous wifh can bear a date
Either too early or too late.
HE greenhouse is my summer feat;
My fhrubs difplaced from that retreat
Enjoy'd the open air;
Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song
Had been their mutual folace long,
Lived happy prifoners there.
They fang as blithe as finches fing
That flutter loose on golden wing,
And frolic where they lift;
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,
But that delight they never knew,
And therefore never miss'd.
But nature works in every breast,
With force not eafily fupprefs'd;
And Dick felt fome defires,
That, after many an effort vain,
Inftructed him at length to gain
A pass between his wires.
The open windows feem'd to invite
The freeman to a farewell flight;
But Tom was ftill confined;
And Dick, although his way was clear,
Was much too generous and fincere
To leave his friend behind.
So fettling on his cage, by play,
And chirp, and kiss, he seem'd to say,
You must not live alone ;-
Nor would he quit that chosen stand
Till I, with flow and cautious hand,
Return'd him to his own.
who never taste the joys
Of Friendship, fatisfied with noise,
Fandango, ball, and rout!
Blush when I tell you how a bird
A prifon with a friend preferr'd
To liberty without.
HERE is a field, through which I often pass,
Thick overspread with moss and filky
Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood,
Where oft the bitch fox hides her hapless brood,
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